


Only Tonight

by DarkBlue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fredmione - Freeform, could have been
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 08:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20812223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkBlue/pseuds/DarkBlue
Summary: The dream of what might have happened once was as vivid as waking. Hermione Granger, happily married, realizes how close she might have come with ending up with a different Weasley brother...





	Only Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> This is an anonymous tumblr prompt from the game 'send me a made up AO3 title and I'll write you a drabble' on my tumblr marauders70s.

“You don’t have to help wash up,” Hermione said to her brother-in-law exasperatedly.

“It’s alright, really,” George assured her. “I think Angie is out back playing with Ron and Freddy. He’s really making his Mum proud. Going to be a first rate Chaser.”

“And Roxy?” asked Hermione with a smile, spelling the drying dishes to their cupboards.

“Nah, she’s more of a Beater, like me,” said George in pride. He glanced over his shoulder up the stairs where there were giggling sounds of children distinctly _not_ sleeping. “What about Hugo?”

“Rose and Hugo have little chance of _not_ ending up in quidditch,” said Hermione in exasperation. “More than half the family is already on broomsticks before they can walk. But it’s sweet of Roxy to try to help Ron get them to bed.”

“She likes babies,” shrugged George. “And since Hugo was born in February like her, she thinks of him as her special cousin.”

“Well he is very cute,” Hermione admitted in spite of herself.

“And Rose is going to be a heartbreaker,” said George easily. At five, Rose already had two girlfriends and three boyfriends in her kindergarten class. 

“Not if she’s anything like her parents,” laughed Hermione. “One relationship apiece? Both bad for different reasons.”

“You had other chances,” said George offhandedly, and Hermione snorted into her mug of hot tea she had let been steeping on the windowsill in front of the kitchen sink.

“You’re sweet,” she told George, making a face. “But I’m no great beauty, and I know that. I think Ron and I were bound to end up together eventually.”

“Maybe,” said George, but this time with a little more evasive offhandedness that sparked Hermione’s interest.

“Why,” she teased. “Did you know someone? Lee maybe?”

George cracked a wry grin. “No, of course not.”

“Not Angelina?” and Hermione was really enjoying herself, pretending to fan the blush in her cheeks. “I don’t know if the world was ready for-”

“It was Fred.”

Hermione stopped short, her breath catching. George so rarely spoke of his twin, just the fact he was mentioning his name aloud was shocking. Hermione shook her head, setting down her mug sharply. 

“Don’t be silly,” she said briskly, trying to be as efficient and sensible as possible to keep George from spiraling as he sometimes did when they talked of Fred. He hadn’t suffered heartbreak at the loss of his twin, he had suffered breaking, period. Part of George would always be absent, always dark, always in shadow. It was up to the Weasley family - and its numerous in laws - to keep the darkness at bay before he could get too far into something.

“I’m not being silly,” George was quiet, but didn’t seem to have that manic, desperate edge they all watched for vigilantly. “He really did like you. Loved you, even.”

“_Fred_?” Hermione asked flatly, trying to make sure they were talking about the same person.

George nodded.

“No he didn’t,” said Hermione, and she knew it was useless to argue with George, his heart, his soul. But it was just so incredibly _impossible_ that - 

“He did. It started in your fourth year. Just a comment here and there.”

Hermione was shaking her head, smiling stupidly, denying it all, but George persisted.

“Ron was hanging out with us, talking about you all the time. Drove Fred batty. He and Ron used to get in fights about imagined slights Ron thought you were taking Harry’s side against him, and of course Fred and I liked Harry so Fred started arguing for you, saying Ron was bonkers about the whole thing. I think it sort of went from there.”

Hermione only stared at him, eyes wide but mouth shut in disbelief.

George continued on, regardless. “But fifth year I thought even you’d notice.”

“What?” asked Hermione faintly.

“That punching telescope? Dabbing cream on your eye? He was head over heels by summertime in Grimmauld Place. Always volunteering to clean with you. _Fred_. My brother. _Cleaning. _We avoided our Mum making us clean so much growing up we developed a spell to shove everything into a closet if she came in.”

“No…” said Hermione, but her voice was doubtful.

“And the _teasing?” _George was incredulous. “Teasing you so badly when we were testing for the shop with the First Years? I admit now, that was well bad, but we didn’t have the real money for focus groups. And Fred just _loved_ when you tried to tell us off. He’d live for it. Sometimes I think he’d wait to start the testing until you were around.”

Hermione’s thoughts were racing, rearranging memory with the tidbit of knowledge George had given her and the years of experience. She sank into a chair, pulling her tea mug closer to her, but not picking it up. The steam was comforting on the underside of her chin. “He can’t have,” she whispered, and she didn’t know why this was such a revelation to her. “He thought I was annoying.”

“Sure,” shrugged George. “When you were twelve. Then you were only Ron’s friend. But you know Mum. Knitting you a Christmas sweater and making you an Easter basket…you sort of became permanent, all the time. None of our friends ever did that.”

Hermione blushed, realizing that George was right. None of Bill, Charlie, Percy, the twins, or even Ginny’s friends had been adopted by Mrs. Weasley the way she and Harry had been.

“Did he really like me?” Hermione asked, her voice smaller than she liked it, “Or was it just a crush?” She didn’t know why that mattered. Either would have been fine. Something not realistic. Not going to happen.

“I think he really loved you,” said George. “Or he would have, if you would have let him.”

Hermione felt hot tears on her face, and for the first time, it was George holding her arm tightly over a mug of tea, while she mourned for their brother. 

“Hermione?” and it was Ron’s voice floating down the stairs. “Have you seen Bun-Bun? Rose says she can’t sleep without him!”

Hermione quickly stood up, brushing tears away and excusing herself from George, grateful for the menial task of looking for her daughter’s stuffed rabbit to take her mind off of all she had learned.

* * *

She couldn’t sleep. Not even after Ron had dropped off, exhausted at wrangling Hugo and Rose into bed. Their goodnights to their niece and nephew had been brief; they would see them both in the morning, most likely. Or at least this week at Saturday family dinners with Molly.

She turned over again, forcing her eyes shut. She was loathe to take a sleeping draft lest she miss Hugo crying. Ron had even let her buy a muggle baby monitor, though she usually caught his stirring with her sharp ears even before the radio did.

A heavy, sleepy hand fell on her hip. Ron stirred awake slightly. “Can’t sleep?” he asked drowsily.

“Sorry, love,” said Hermione at once. “I can go out on the couch.”

“No,” yawned Ron. “I thought you’d want to-”

Hermione almost said no, but thought better of it. It might relax her and help her sleep, after all. She had a strange creeping feeling she should never tell Ron what George had said. He might develop some sort of complex over it. 

“Sure,” she said instead, turning into his arms and letting him kiss her. 

Ron was half asleep, but he did the job properly. Hermione felt her face flaming in the darkness, grateful that Ron was no legilimens, when she thought of a different red head down between her legs, this one grinning and teasing as she gasped, instead of methodical, knowledgable, sleepy but happy.

“Thank you,” she said, when Ron rolled over, stretching his arms up above his head like a starfish. She knew he always slept his deepest, most comfortable sleeps like this, and he didn’t even answer before he was dead into one.

Hermione lay for a while in the afterglow, hoping that sleep would creep up on her, but instead her mind only furiously worked over old memories, thinking of the differences that could have happened. If in Grimmauld Place, that summer of anger, he had just acknowledged it once. Their sneaking around old portraits and Order Meetings could have been very different indeed. His messages on the radio horcrux hunting could have been for her. And if he had - 

If he had, she would have asked Fred to the Chamber of Secrets. He wouldn’t have been there to greet Percy. He could have kissed her in front of Ron freeing the house elves. Ron would have been okay with it somehow…

Hermione realized she had drifted into half a daydream and half a waking dream when the baby monitor crackled with Hugo’s cry.

Ron didn’t stir, and Hermione was grateful this once for his insensibility. She did not club him with a pillow for his turn, but gratefully rolled out of bed to get her son, happy for the excuse not to toss and turn. 

“There we go,” Hermione said to Hugo, pulling him from his crib and crossing to the rocking chair. She put him to her breast and he began suckling at once as she set a steady swooping motion with one idle foot, tipping her head back and continuing the thoughts.

_“They’re at it again,” said Fred morosely to his audience gathered around the extendable ears._

“Again?” asked Ginny scathingly.

“Just ignore them Gin,” said George. “Percy can’t help that he was born a bastard.”

“George,” Hermione scolded, but without heart. What was her place to correct siblings?

“Come on,” said Ron moodily, feeling the echoes of the screams up the stairs. “If they don’t can it soon they’ll wake the kraken.”

He meant the painting of Sirius’ mother, and the others drew back, grimacing. 

“Fancy a game of chess?” Ron asked Hermione, but without hope.

“I’ll play you,” said George, resigned.

“I’ll play him,” said a new voice, and Ginny threw herself down the stairs in a rush to get to him.

“Charlie!” she whisper-screamed. “You’re here!”

“And don’t want to interrupt,” her brother grimaced, indicating the sunken kitchen door with their parents behind it. “Plus, Ron’s getting too cocky at chess. Needs a few pegs down.”

“Will you tell us about what’s happening in Romania?” Ginny demanded, and Charlie nodded. 

“Of course.”

“Think you can play gobstones with one hand and chess with another?” George asked slyly.

Charlie grinned. “A sickle says I can.”

Hermione-in-the-dream felt the rest of the memory play out. It was before she and Ron had gotten their prefect letters. Before Harry had arrived. Fred had gone with George and the rest of his siblings, as usual, and Hermione had gone up to the room she shared with Ginny and read a book, trying not to feel excluded. And if she had stayed, she would have only felt she were intruding.

But now.

“Want to see what I’ve done up on the roof?” Fred asked her cheekily - another memory, but not the same day.

Hermione shrugged. 

“Beats sitting around,” Fred challenged, and Hermione nodded.

“Fine. Sure.”

Fred lead the way up the endless tight staircase. The Black Manse was five stories not counting the basement. Each floor only had three or four rooms in a tight square around the staircase balustrade. The top of the Manse was a flat rooftop for a garden or a sitting area. But of course, like the rest of the house, it was a complete decrepit trash receptacle full of rusting parts of things, old nails, broken potion bottles, a broken laundry line, and other molding and odorous things. No one liked to spend time up there if they could help it, not the least of which was the chance of passing too high above the boundary spell to keep 12 Grimmauld Place hidden. There wasn’t even quidditch or broom flying to pass the time.

“Ta-da,” announced Fred, showing her the exact same trash heap she had seen before. 

“You’ve done a lovely job with it,” she said scathingly.

“No, that’s not it,” said Fred, grinning at her irritation. “This is!” And he pulled two old battered golf clubs from behind the door to the stairwell. They were slightly bent, and as rusted and dented as everything else.

“New sport?” she asked sweetly.

“Watch,” said Fred, lining up a half broken bottle. He took a huge swing, and launched the shower of glass over the edge of the building and onto the street. It disappeared halfway down in the barrier spell.

Hermione moved closer, impressed. “That’s one way to clear rubbish.”

“It’s incredibly satisfying,” said Fred, not looking at her. He was still shading his brown eyes, as if looking at an impressive long shot on the green, but really watching the thick haze of South London crowding the power lines across the way. 

“Line me up,” said Hermione at once, and Fred gave her an old dented tin can, with something black congealing out of the mold on its side. Hermione made a disgusted face, wound up the golf club, and thwacked it satisfyingly against the can, sending it and its contents spiraling everywhere before plunking over the edge.

“You’ve hit it too high,” said Fred, coming over and giving her another one. He took the club from behind - _how had she not seen this in her memory_ \- before carefully tapping the top of a new piece of metal with the club face.

“Nice and low. Really sweep it out of here. Like my mother with a broom.”

Hermione’s face split into a grin as she drew back. It was so rare to smile in Grimmauld Place. The whole miasma of it grew into the bones until everyone was curt and skittish and angry. 

“You’ve cut up your hands,” said Fred after Hermione sent another projectile launching into the nothingness around the rooftop.

Hermione looked down at her hands. “Oh, no,” she said, somewhat embarrassed. “It was Hedwig.”

“Harry’s owl?” asked Fred, astonished. 

Hermione nodded. “He’s really…really angry, being all by himself.”

“Probably a party compared to here,” Fred muttered. 

Hermione had never seen Fred anything but jocular. He was always trying to get everyone else to laugh. She hadn’t realized it was his way of coping. That he never was laughing. Not really.

“It’s been a hard summer,” she sympathized.

“You only got here last week,” Fred said bitterly, and then looked furious with himself. “Not that we’re not-”

“I know,” said Hermione, and this time she lined up the trash for both of them. In tandem, they swung and launched the garbage over the roofline. “That is satisfying,” she added, and Fred looked gratified.

“We’ll be going back to school, anyway,” Fred continued as they rummaged for more things small enough to hit, stockpiling.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Hermione. “About making…an Order for ourselves.”

Fred perked up. “Yeah? With who?”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione self-consciously. “Me, and you. George and Ron. Harry, of course. Ginny.”

“So the people here?” asked Fred dryly.

Hermione blushed. “It was only an idea,” she muttered.

They both launched trash over the roof with the violence they could not bring against the house itself. As they swung, Hermione sensed Fred was putting much more of a Beater’s effort into it than she was. So much, in fact, that he was spattering himself with the backlash of bursting things apart with the force of it, swinging over and over and over.

“I think that’s enough,” said Hermione, pulling the club out of Fred’s hands. _That hadn’t happened, she had only thought about it_….

Fred was panting, brown eyes hard and angry. “I hate it here,” he said bitterly, all at once. The words came pouring out of him. “And we have to be good for Ginny. And we have to make Mum try to laugh or else she’ll always be crying. Even anger is better than…than…and George and I are in a stupid old bed that someone probably died in and there’s not even beds enough to have separate ones. And Bill and Charlie get to go out and _do_ and we’re in our last year and we’re of age and we’re supposed to sit by and sleep in little beds and pretend it’s fine and-”

Hermione didn’t know how to stop him. She only leaned in and hugged him. It was strange. She and Fred had never been alone together so much. Usually Ron was there, or at least George.

Fred only breathed hard and angry and hot into the top of her hair, his arms finally going around her in return. His breath made her scalp tingle, and his nose came down to find the top of her head. He was shorter than Ron was. Ron would be able to fit Hermione under his chin, but Fred held her near his mouth, his panting not quite slowed, hot against the skin of her head as she stared at the place where his neck met his collarbones, watching the fluttering of his heartbeat in the summer sun.

“Hermione, I-” said Fred, drawing back. He looked embarrassed, and he flicked his eyes to the clubs where they had dropped them. He let go of her to get them and lean them against the brickwork.

“I get it,” she said, her voice full of compassion. “It’s stupid, and not fair. You’ll be eighteen in April and-”

“And you’re going to be sixteen next month,” said Fred in a strange voice.

Hermione was taken aback. She nodded tentatively. “September 19th.”

“You’re older than Ron.”

Hermione smiled a little, lopsided. “I got my letter to Hogwarts almost a year in advance. I had plenty of time to memorize my textbooks. Poor Harry got his only four weeks to wrap his head around being a wizard.”

Fred actually laughed, his eyes growing crinkly at the corners, though she wasn’t sure his mouth was smiling because for some reason she didn’t trust herself to look at it. Against her will, her eyes flicked to it, and his smile grew.

“We’re going to be a year apart for half a year,” said Fred, leaning against the masonry of the house, not ready to go back in the gloom. 

Relaxing a bit, Hermione leaned beside him. “I know. Only eighteen months apart, actually.”

“I am awfully sorry about that punching telescope.”

Was it her, or did he seem closer than a few moments before when she had looked away?

She blushed, looking down. “It’s alright,” she said, though it had hurt, quite a bit.

“Let me see,” Fred commanded, tipping her chin up, and her blush grew at the touch of his fingers, though she didn’t know why.

“It looks better,” he said teasingly, his nose crinkling at her nervous swallow.

“Doesn’t hurt as much,” she managed, and his face grew serious. 

“I am sorry,” he whispered, his other hand creeping up. “Let me make it up to you.”

She had plenty of time to pull away, but she was a deer in the headlights. He cupped her face gently, sweetly, the sun making her squint up at his freckled face as he descended on her slow and sure, making sure she had plenty of time to refuse. 

The kiss lingered. Deepened. Until she felt it sparking through places she wasn’t sure she was ready for. Her mouth opened and - 

_“Good morning,”_ said Ron, self satisfied at her wide eyed astonishment. He had found her sleeping upright, nursing Hugo who had long since fallen back asleep.

“R-Ron,” Hermione stammered.

He grinned at her. “Breakfast is ready,” he announced. She could hear Rose at the kitchen table already. Everything seemed so confusing. She wasn’t sure if Rose was real. She had opened her eyes to see brown and seen blue instead.

“Are you okay?” Ron asked, seeing her blinking astonishment.

“I just…need to wake up,” she managed, flushing to her core. How could she even look at Ron after dreaming about being fifteen again?

“Don’t worry,” said Ron cheerfully, dragging her to the kitchen without noticing her upset. “I made coffee.”


End file.
